


There is a Light that Never Goes Out

by gayuris (nepetaleijon)



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Character Death, Fluff, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, and finally. finally i have finished it, arguments about music, except for lonnie byers who can die in a bush fire for all i care, how do I tag without spoiling, i started writing it before s2 and s3 which is why there's no robin :c, i wish i could say angst with a happy ending but i would be lying sorry lads, im exposing myself by being this gay publically with my works this amount of gay should be illegal, listen i started this like three years ago for nanowrimo, lol sorry, mentions of abuse, steve being a dumbass, steve being a sap, the byers family being a good and valid family, this is pretty gay ngl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25013899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nepetaleijon/pseuds/gayuris
Summary: Or: five times Steve Harrington takes Jonathan’s hand, and one time he doesn’t.
Relationships: Jonathan Byers/Steve Harrington
Comments: 3
Kudos: 37





	There is a Light that Never Goes Out

**Author's Note:**

> so I started this for Nanowrimo 2017, which clearly went exactly to plan, and found it today when i was preparing to start another fic and i was like okay,,, actually this slaps i should finish it 
> 
> not really in this fandom anymore but i couldn't let it go to waste, you know? so here we are i hope yall enjoy 
> 
> also i FINALLY learned how to italicize in ao3 it's a miracle!! may we all celebrate

  1. _Take me out tonight, because I want to see people and I want to see light._



It’s been months, but he still dreams about fire and monsters and the sound of his bat connecting with inhuman flesh and Nancy’s screams; still wakes up to the taste of blood where he’s bit through his lip trying not to make noise--even unconscious, he knows well enough to keep his head down. The things he used to care about seem inconsequential; he hasn’t given Tommy H or Carol the time of the day since he told them exactly what he thought of them, and he finds his life is a little better for it. Now he sits with Nancy and Jonathan during lunch periods on the days that they share them, where Nancy studies and Jonathan and Steve bicker over music or sit in uncomfortable silence. He’s still trying to get used to it; it seems a lifetime ago that he used to make fun of the Byers family and pick on Jonathan relentlessly, but it’s not been long enough for the two of them to be on steady footing yet. He doesn’t know what to do to get Byers to trust him; he figures the camera was a good start, but knows it’s not nearly enough to make up for what he’s done. He’s trying though, he really is--he compliments Jonathan’s photos, and tries to strike up conversations when he can, and offers to drive Will around if he needs it. Every time he thinks he’s starting to make progress, though, something always seems to send Jonathan retreating back into his shell. He’s starting to wonder if it’s him, if there’s just something about him that is destined to drive people away, and for the life of him, he can’t figure out why he cares so much. He’s always been a let-down, a failure, and he’s learned not to get too attached--it just makes things worse to love something that is destined to leave--so why can’t he let it go?

He’s trying again when it all comes to a head. It’s just before school and Steve’s slouched against the lockers next to Jonathan’s, doing his best to look cool though he can’t stop tapping his fingers against his thigh. He’s almost relieved when the kid finally shows up; at least he won’t look like he’s waiting alone for a girlfriend who’s stood him up. He can tell the instant Jonathan sees him, because his eyes widen and then narrow just slightly, and his shoulders hunch up that little bit higher. 

“Um… hey? Is there- do you need something?” he asks once he gets close enough, shifting his weight from foot to foot nervously.

“Nah, man,” Steve says as easily as he can, straightening up, “I just, uh- well, I made you this. You know, ‘cause your taste in music is so shit and all; figured you could use some better tunes in your car, so that your passengers don’t have to suffer, and um. And all that.”  _ Smooth, Steve.  _ The proffered mixtape dangles uncertainly from his fingertips as he waits, gaze moving from his feet to the lockers to the wall and back to his feet, for the other boy to take it. Jonathan grabs it, flips it over a couple of times in his hands, and looks up with something in his eyes that Steve can’t quite name--defiance? anger? before speaking.

“Why the hell are you doing this?” Steve is taken aback.

“What? Dude, I just told you- your music sucks, so I-”

“No, not- ugh, not that. I just… I don’t get it. I know what you think of me; I’m not a charity case, okay? I don’t need you or Nancy to pretend to like me, or, or to hang out with me, or to do all this stuff, alright? I can take care of myself, I don’t need your pity. So thanks anyway, but,” he shoves the mixtape into Steve’s chest, “just… stop trying.” He shakes his head with something like disgust and storms off, shoulders hunched and hands buried in his pockets, headed for the doors.

“Hey, now wait just a minute!” Steve calls after him, bumping shoulders with a few students who pause to watch the commotion in the hallway. “That’s unfair, and you know it!” Jonathan reaches the doors and throws them open, making a beeline for his car, and Steve’s stumbling as he tries to catch up.

“Would you just- can you just give me a second to hear me out? You don’t get to just say that stuff and then walk away like it’s nothing, dude! This involves the both of us; I get a say, too. And, for the record, you’re completely wrong. I don’t know who you take me for, but I’m not exactly someone you’d call charitable.” Jonathan stops and turns abruptly; they’re almost to his car, out at the edge of the parking lot.

“So then why? Why won’t you leave me the hell alone? Why do you keep playing nice and pretending like you’re interested in my pictures and acting like we’re friends? Why, after all this time? You made my life miserable for years, and now you just expect me to believe- what, that you’ve changed? That you’re a better person? That you’re not going to run around spreading rumors about my family the second I turn my back? Huh?” Vaguely, Steve registers that this might be the most he’s ever heard Jonathan say at one time, but mostly he’s just rooted to the spot with guilt. Because Jonathan’s right, he has no reason to believe Steve is any different now than he’s always been. He wouldn’t trust himself, either.

When he speaks, it’s quiet: “You’re right.” He pauses, runs a hand down his face. “If I were you, I wouldn’t believe me either. But then again, up until a few months ago, I didn’t believe in monsters, and look where that got us.” They’re both silent for a minute, remembering a charred spot on the carpet and the sound of bullets and running down the hallway. 

“Listen, I know I was in the wrong. For what it’s worth, I was an unhappy kid, and I didn’t know anything other than lashing out; it wasn’t exactly like anything else was modeled to me- it’s no excuse, but I just want you to know how truly, truly sorry I am.” He exhales, slowly. “I mean--you and Nancy, you guys… you change me, you make me a better person. I feel like, maybe, I can be proud of who I am around you. And you know, sometimes killing a huge, terrifying monster with a bear trap and a baseball bat bonds people.” He smiles weakly, unable to look Jonathan in the eye. 

“It’s not- I know you can take care of yourself, I’ve seen you, of course you can take care of yourself. I’m not doing this for pity, or for charity, or to make Nancy happy, or whatever other bullshit.” He’s not sure what he’s doing, but something compels him to step forward and, when Jonathan doesn’t back away, to reach out and grab his hand. He finally looks up.

“I’m not pretending, okay? Maybe I like hanging out with you, and think your pictures are cool, and don’t really mind listening to your music even though it all sucks. Is it so hard to believe that people actually enjoy your company? Dude, Nancy and I- you matter to us, so just… yeah.” Steve doesn’t know what to say after that, and ends up falling silent. He’s feeling increasingly uncomfortable; he’s never been good about talking about serious things, and he’s sure he’s said or done something wrong. His hand’s probably getting Jonathan’s all sweaty; has it been there too long? Should he take it back? He’s not sure what to do and it’s still quiet and he’s afraid to move. Jonathan eventually lets out a breath.

“Maybe I’ll forgive you- if you admit that The Smiths are better than Queen.” Steve acts mock horrified in answer to Jonathan’s smirk, pulling his hand back to shove at him gently.

“Never! You can’t make me, Byers; you’ll have to kill me first!” Jonathan chuckles, and Steve is relieved; he’s pretty sure he’s been forgiven. He suddenly remembers the mixtape in his other hand.

“Hey, um- did you want this, though? ‘Cause, like, you don’t have to take it. I was just wondering-”

“Yeah, uh, I’d like that. Thanks, Steve. Here, why don’t I just-” Jonathan unlocks his car and, taking the tape from Steve’s hand, sets it on the middle of the dashboard. He straightens up, relocking the door, and they stand there for a second before the long-forgotten bell rings loudly from the school behind them. 

“Shit, I’m gonna be late- math, I’ve gotta go, I can’t afford to miss again!” Jonathan says, eyes widening, already taking off toward the building, Steve hot on his heels.

“Damn it, I have English, my teacher’s gonna kill me!” They split off in the hallway, and as Steve settles down in his first class of the day, he has a feeling that maybe things are going to be okay.

  1. _Take me out tonight, where there’s music and there’s people and they’re young and alive._



They’re watching a movie, whatever Jonathan’s picked, taking a break from the stress of senior year and the college letters Steve is trying not to think about. It’s late at night, though he’s not quite sure how late, and his parents aren’t home. It’s rare that they are, but he’s trying not to think about that, either. There are a lot of things he tries not to think about. Maybe he needs a cigarette. He drops his head to his hand exhaustedly, running fingers through his hair. Jonathan looks away from the movie, brow slightly furrowed, skin glowing in the light from the TV.

“You good?” Steve glances up, nods. The living room suddenly feels claustrophobic, he needs to be anywhere but here, doing anything but this; he stands, knocking a pillow to the ground with his elbow. 

“‘M gonna go… make popcorn,” he mutters, stumbling in his haste to escape the presence of something strange, something he’s not sure he knows how to name, or wants to. He blows out a long breath as he waits for the popcorn to pop; he can hear the music and dialogue from the movie even in here--he’s pretty sure it’s supposed to be some sort of horror film, but after everything that went down in the Byers household not even a year ago, Steve has a hard time finding it frightening. He wonders what Jonathan was thinking about when he picked it, and if he still sometimes remembers trying to stifle panicked breathing while hiding behind a flimsy door and flames in a darkened hallway like Steve does. 

The beeping of the microwave oven makes him jump a good few inches; he can smell that the popcorn’s been burnt in his distraction. He mutters a couple of curses as he pulls a bowl out, hands shaking. He hopes Jonathan doesn’t mind too much. At least he can blame it on not understanding fully how the microwave works yet; his parents decided they needed one after reading about it in some magazine, and now the expensive electric monstrosity takes up room on their counter, despite being rarely used. He carries the bowl out to the couch, heartbeat not quite lowered back to normal, and drops back into his seat.

“I burnt it a little, sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, but Jonathan waves him off. 

“It’s fine; don’t worry about it.” 

They sit in silence, interrupted only by the sounds of chewing and swallowing and the rasp of fingers and loose popcorn kernels scraping the sides of the plastic bowl. The credits of the movie roll and still they sit there, unsure of what to do next. It’s that awkward period of time when it’s too early to call it a night and too late to go anywhere or do much; maybe other people would take the opportunity to chat but Jonathan’s never been particularly talkative and Steve’s never been great at holding deep conversations. 

“Hey, uh, you want a beer?” Maybe alcohol will make this whole situation more bearable. Then again, maybe not; Steve’s not one known for making good decisions even when sober. But he’s gotta do  _ something _ before they sit in this living room until they turn old and leathery with wrinkled faces. 

“Nah, I’m good. Thanks though,” Jonathan replies with a shake of his head, fringe covering his eyes. Steve can’t say he’s surprised; he’s still not entirely sure what the story with Lonnie is, but he knows the dude was rarely seen without a drink and that the Byers kids were a bit too clumsy for too many years--nobody falls down the stairs that many times. He doesn’t say anything, though; he knows what it’s like to wear sweaters in the heat and hope nobody notices the winces, and the last thing he needs right now is to get into it all with Jonathan. 

He’s not sure his head's on straight tonight; there’s something about this time of year, when it’s dark but doesn’t feel like it should be and the second half of the school year has just started, that makes him feel like he’s going nowhere and will amount to nothing. Everything seems bigger, more overwhelming, more insurmountable; the jokes come less easily, the laughter is more forced. He hasn’t been sleeping well; the nightmares have been worse, and it’s almost every night now that he wakes up in a cold sweat with tears on his cheeks. He’s sure that’s part of the reason Jonathan is here tonight--it wouldn’t surprise him to learn that Nancy had something to do with the impromptu movie night, either. He loves his ex-girlfriend, he really does, but she’s too meddlesome for her own good. She tends to figure things out without him having to tell her; she and Jonathan both probably noticed something was up. Steve wonders if he should mention it or just wait and see if Byers cracks. 

“We could head up to my room if you want,” Steve offers, for lack of anything else to do. It’s not as though Jonathan hasn’t been to his house or in his room before; the two of them have been hanging out more and more often since the school year started, and Steve can’t say he’s disappointed about it. He feels like he should be used to it by now, the presence of Jonathan in his home, but it always feels new and uncertain. He fights the urge to fidget as he waits for the other boy’s response. 

“So long as I get to choose the record,” Jonathan smirks, lifting himself up with a sort of grace Steve’s always admired. Something about him and the way he moves, his joints all flowing and posture designed to make him seem smaller, but there’s always that undercurrent of--there’s this hint of power, of the persistence that defines and drives him, and Steve just can’t stop watching him. He shakes himself out of it as Jonathan climbs the stairs up to his room, following behind at a more leisurely pace. 

By the time he’s reached the landing, The Cure is playing and the light is on. Jonathan’s in his bedroom, flipping idly through one of the many journals and notebooks scattered about, gifts from well-meaning relatives who thought maybe if they chose the right color, Steve would become more academically inclined or something equally stupid. He’s actually been taking notes recently, though, actually trying, and he wonders vaguely which class Jonathan’s looking at. It’s not as though the guy needs any help; he’s been discovering things about Jonathan, one of which is how truly smart he is. He knows Jonathan’s dream has always been to go to NYU, and Steve has no doubt that he’ll manage it. Jonathan deserves better than Hawkins, deserves better than this shit town with its small-minded citizens and slow, stifling nature. He has a future, he has the smarts and the talent to get out there and make something of himself, if he’ll only believe it. As for Steve, well… he figures it’ll be a miracle if he doesn’t end up taking over his father’s job, probably living in this very house for as long as he lives. He takes a swig of his beer and tries not to let on how bitter he feels, all rough at the edges. 

“What’re you looking at?” He asks, for one because he’s curious, and also because he needs to be talking, needs to be doing something, needs to know somebody else is alive and in the moment with him. 

“These are… you draw?” Jonathan says, instead, and Steve’s breath catches. Well, shit. He wasn’t expecting anybody today, and he  _ certainly _ wasn’t expecting to have anybody in his room, going through his journals, or he’d have slid it back under the bed. It’s not that he’s embarrassed about his drawings, per se, it’s more that he’s never been that good and he’s never felt comfortable showing them to anybody. He knows if his dad found out, he’d probably call Steve a fag and then beat the shit out of him, and that’s sort of deterred him from talking about it with anybody else. But this is Jonathan, not his dad, so he doesn’t freak out, or at least, tries not to.

“I mean… uh, yeah, I guess?” He looks down, shuffles his feet, tries not to be hyperaware of every page turn and breath. He knows there are a bunch of drawings in there of scenes and concepts from his nightmares; it’s the only way that he can get any sort of peace, and he hopes that Jonathan doesn’t notice or think too much of it. There are also pictures of Nancy, and the kids, and oh god, he’s pretty sure there’s more than one of Jonathan in that journal, too. Shit. He sits down and drinks his beer and listens to the song change on the record and tries not to panic while he waits for Byers to finish. 

“Is this…” Steve’s head snaps up as Jonathan speaks, leaning in closer to look at something. “Is this me?” His gaze turns to meet Steve’s, eyes wide and fingers trembling slightly where they rest on the pages. Steve feels like he should make a joke, move, do something, but all that comes out is a stifled cough. 

“Uhum. Yeah. Yeah, it is,” he ends up saying, cheeks flushed, losing any semblance of composure he might’ve had. Jonathan is silent for a moment, turning back to the drawing for another look. Steve is stiff and anticipatory, nerves thrumming with dread. When Jonathan moves, it startles him, and he ends up flinching back as chapped, thin lips meet his own. 

“Oh. Oh god, Steve, I’m so sorry, please-” Jonathan starts anxiously, turning to go, avoiding Steve’s eyes at all costs. Steve reaches out and grabs him by the hand before he can get out the door, spinning him back around to kiss him properly. It’s messy and short and when they break apart it’s hesitant, as though neither one of them knows what to do or say next, but it’s also undeniably right. 

“Stay,” Steve says, lacing his fingers through Jonathan’s, and slowly, they settle themselves back onto the bed. 

He’s not sure what they talk about for the next while, but he knows he’s left feeling warm and happier than he has in a long time. Jonathan’s head is on his shoulder and they still haven’t stopped holding hands and something bubbles up in him and before he knows it, he’s blurting it out--

“Do you think you’d want to, you know, get dinner or catch a movie with me sometime?” He can feel Jonathan stiffen where he’s leaning against Steve’s side. 

“Are you asking me out on a date?” Jonathan says, quietly, and although Steve’s instincts are screaming at him to cover it up and laugh it off, he forces himself not to.

“Yeah, I guess I am. That okay by you?” He’s trying to act less nervous than he is, though he’s sure Jonathan can see right through him. 

“I’d like that, yeah,” Jonathan replies, smiling, and Steve beams. They’ve got a lot to figure out, but he figures it’s a good start. 

  1. _Driving in your car, oh, please don’t drop me home, because it’s not my home, it’s their home and I’m welcome no more._



It’s starting in on the third week and Steve is starting to get tired of walking through apartments. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be here--in fact, it’s more the opposite; he likes spending time uninterrupted with his boyfriend. It’s just that he’d rather not do it while looking at houses, and preferably under happier circumstances. He’s been couch-surfing for nearly a month, spending most of his time between Nancy’s and Jonathan’s houses, and he’s felt inconvenient and like he’s been imposing himself on them no matter what they say. Nancy’s just left for college and Steve’s still feeling a little unsteady, a bit like he’s been left without a part of himself. He hadn’t been sure what he was going to do with himself when the only two people he cared about left him behind, and the events of last month had left him on even more unstable footing. He’s never been more thankful for the Byers and for Jonathan’s calm and steady way of working through problems. He’s not going to say he’s thrilled to have to deal with the stress of house hunting, but it was going to happen sooner or later, and it’s a trade-off he’s willing to make in order to stay with Jonathan and feel less adrift. 

He’s already found a couple of jobs, one at a grocery store not far from the main campus of NYU and one at a diner a few blocks from there. They’re both shitty, sure, but they’re something, and really, Steve’s got no idea what he wants to be doing with his life, so it’s fine by him. He’s pretty sure that Jonathan’s guaranteed housing on campus his first year, but Steve isn’t going to be taking courses, which is why he’s here, trying to find somewhere cheap and within walking distance from work. It wouldn’t be an issue if his parents hadn’t cut him off, but they had. He’s trying to be alright with it. It helps that he never really got along with them in the first place. 

He’s still not quite sure how his dad found out, but he guesses it doesn’t really matter. It was bound to happen anyways; honestly, he’s sort of amazed it took as long as it did. It’s not like he kept his relationship with Jonathan that big a secret; at least, he didn’t actively hide it or flaunt it. He was tired of trying to appease everybody, tired of hiding and pretending and faking and caring what everybody thought. It was nobody’s business but his who he liked, who he kissed, who he dated. He got a lot of shit for it at first, and knew that Jonathan had too, but when they didn’t bite back (and, fine, maybe after flashing a baseball bat studded with nails a couple of times) most people just left them alone, and that was fine with Steve. 

It was not fine with Steve’s dad. 

A month ago, Steve had showed up at Jonathan’s window, beaten to shit and panicky, unsure of what to do or where to go, and the Byers had all been more understanding than he could’ve hoped for. He had asked them not to take him to a hospital, which they were more reluctant about, but Joyce’s first aid kit under the sink and a little bit of rest had done him some good, and eventually they’d let it go. He had been back to his house only once, when his parents were out, to get the stuff he actually cared about. Other than that, he’d had no contact with any of his family since, which he didn’t mind as much as he’d expected. They’d never been especially close. 

He zones back in when Jonathan says his name questioningly, watching Steve with a slightly worried expression that suggests he’s been trying to get Steve’s attention for some time now. 

“What was that, sorry?” he asks quickly, giving a winning smile. He can tell Jonathan is not convinced, but he lets it go with a peck to the forehead.

“I was asking what you thought of the apartment?” Oh, yeah, that. Steve probably should be paying attention. He gives his surroundings a quick glance. 

“It looks fine,” he tries, with a shrug. Jonathan gives a sigh and a little smile. 

“Helpful. Whatever would we do without your input?” He mocks his boyfriend, giving him a gentle shove with his shoulder. Steve can’t help but smile back. Something about Jonathan just puts him at ease; he can’t help it. He’s disgustingly sappy for the Byers boy. 

“Really, though,” he says, eyebrows raised as he looks around again, running his fingers over the paint on the wall of the entryway, “I think this is probably the best place we’ve seen.” At least there are no crayon marks on the floor or dead cats in the wall; he’s pretty sure he’s seen it all in the last few weeks. Jonathan nods his agreement, and almost simultaneously, they step to move into the next room. 

Through the doorway is the kitchen and it’s surprisingly well lit, bright and small and cheerful and just the sort of kitchen Steve’s always wanted to have. Not that it’s something he’s spent time thinking about--of course not. What kind of man do people take him for, anyways? He just likes the idea of having somewhere nice to eat, and to host in, and okay, so maybe sometimes he likes to imagine Jonathan cooking some meal he’d burn if he tried to help with, homework scattered across their limited counter space and the kids making noise around the cramped and battered kitchen table he can see through the kitchen pass-through. He can just picture it--a campaign going on in earnest, Dustin and Lucas bickering over something or another with El and Max looking on as referees, Nancy and Steve and Jonathan leaning against cupboards in the kitchen, some sort of sauce bubbling on the stove. It makes him feel so homesick, fills him with such a longing for some sort of normalcy, that he has to reach out and grip Jonathan’s hand to steady himself. His boyfriend looks over, squeezes his hand. He just nods.

“Yeah?” Jonathan asks, quietly.

“Yeah,” he says, and then he can’t help it because he’s crying a little bit and laughing all at once and isn’t really sure what’s happening but he’s just so--he’s never really felt like maybe it could be  _ okay _ and he could have a  _ life _ and a  _ future _ and a  _ home _ and it’s overwhelming and exhilarating all at once. He doesn’t have the words to thank Jonathan for asking him to move in, or for just being there and being patient, but he thinks maybe Jonathan already knows when he smiles too, pulling him in for a hug. 

They get the apartment and it takes some time to move everything in, but the first break that the kids come over to hang out for a night makes it all worth it.

  1. _I thought oh God, my chance has come at last, but then a strange fear gripped me and I just couldn’t ask._



Steve has been doing this for years, and it still hits him every time just how lucky he is. Never once does it get old to open the door--his door, their door--and see his boyfriend, older now, hair pulled up off his face, working on a set for an event, or scrolling through shoots from the day, or eyes closed as he listens to music. Some things have stayed the same--they still watch whatever new movie Jonathan’s heard about and comment on its editing, they still call Nance every weekend to see how she’s doing settling into her new job (not-so-new by this point, but they’re happy to use it as an excuse to call her anyways), they still hang up Will’s pictures like he’s a kid drawing stick figure family portraits. Now, though, the movies are brighter and smoother, calls with Nancy are full of talk of adult things and settling down, and Will’s art gets framed and hung on the walls rather than stuck to the refrigerator door by fading alphabet magnets. The kids have long since stopped crashing through their apartment door to start new campaigns; in fact, it’s been ages since he’s even thought of them as kids. The rooms are quiet more often than not. Nightmares and panic attacks have become less and less frequent, memories of the Upside Down fading away to just those--memories. His life is finally starting to resemble something peaceful, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He’s been thinking about doing this for a while now and has no reason not to; he’s not sure why he’s so nervous about it, but he is. He knows it’s the right thing to do, knows with all his heart that he wouldn’t want it any other way, but the butterflies just won’t fade. He’s worked for months on planning the whole thing so that it will go exactly right; he’s made the gift himself and hopes that Jonathan will look at it and laugh when he remembers. He’s made reservations, has saved money for almost a year to afford the ring, has rehearsed his speech so many times he could probably recite it in his sleep. Which, actually, he might’ve--does he talk in his sleep? Maybe Jonathan already knows. Maybe he won’t have to ask! 

He knows he’s being ridiculous and building this up; it’s not like Jonathan’s given any indication that he would turn Steve down. But he really loves Jonathan and can’t imagine losing him. He’s terrified that he’ll unwittingly drive Jonathan away, move too quickly or draw too much attention to the two of them, say or do something wrong, that he’ll lose the best thing in his life in an instant, and it fills him with a sick dread. He’s debated with himself, gone back and forth at least a million times by now, thought it out logically and illogically, tried to imagine every possible scenario and possibility, but he still doesn’t feel ready. He’s talked himself in and out of doing it so many times now that he’s not sure he’ll ever actually propose. They’re not even going to be able to get legally married; he knows they’ll get quite a lot of pushback for even a simple commitment ceremony. All he knows is that he wants this, that this is the person he wants to spend every day of the rest of his life with, that seeing Jonathan every morning makes him happy, that he would gladly give anything to be able to wake up curled in Jonathan’s arms and be able to make him coffee every morning and run his fingers through that soft hair and kiss him whenever he feels like it and there’s nothing else that really matters but what they have. He has to do this.

He starts off like it’s just a suggestion, just another idea for a date night since the two of them rarely go out, something fancy but not too fancy, something to celebrate some random anniversary that Steve’s made up for something that doesn’t really matter to either one of them. It’s just an excuse; it doesn’t matter how flimsy it is, so long as it gets them out of the house. Jonathan agrees readily; he usually does, and the two of them are set to go for the next weekend. It’s the longest week of Steve’s life, he’s pretty sure, or maybe the shortest one. He doesn’t really know anymore. He’s not having the easiest time thinking straight. 

He’s burning through another pack of gum; he quit smoking long ago, when he learned that Jonathan didn’t like it all that much, and took to chewing gum instead. It’s not really the same, but it’s comforting enough that he turns to it in times of stress, usually leading to a sugary mess and pockets full of crumpled wrappers. It’s how Jonathan finds him the morning of their date, leaning against the side of the house just outside their front door, early enough that it’s still cold but late enough that the sky has lightened enough to see by. He offers out a mug of coffee, black, burning Steve’s hands as he takes it, gratefully, with a peck to his boyfriend’s lips. He can’t help but chortle to a little as he pulls away, earning himself a tilted head and a smirk.

“How did we end up so domestic, huh?” He voices, shaking his head with mock disdain.

“You’re just a big softie at heart, and you know it,” Jonathan jabs. God, this boy. 

“Pffft, you wish.” 

“Listen, I have the tapes from all the campaigns you joined in to prove it-”

“No!” He gasps, faking horror, hand over his chest. 

“It’s too late, Harrington, the world knows your secret now. Nothing you can do about it.” Steve makes a show of tilting his head to the side, deliberating.

“Now, let’s not be hasty, I’m sure we can reach an agreement. Are you  _ sure _ there’s nothing I can do to, ahem, persuade you to destroy the evidence?” He’s sure the corners of his mouth twitch, as hard as he tries not to let them.

“I don’t know… what exactly were you thinking, hmm?” There’s a glint in Jonathan’s eye that belies his fake innocence. 

“Why don’t I show you?” Steve says right back, stepping inside and setting down his mug of coffee so he doesn’t accidentally end up burning anybody while distracted. Which is something that has never happened before. Ever. 

They end up getting out of bed later than they probably should, which is okay by both of them.

That night, Steve dresses nicely, slicks his hair back--just because it’s shorter now doesn’t mean it shouldn’t still look fabulous--and swings out into the bedroom to pick up his partner. Jonathan’s sitting on their bed, lacing his shoe, nothing out of the ordinary. It shouldn’t freeze Steve in his tracks, but it does, because Jonathan Byers is absolutely, undeniably beautiful and there’s something painful in his throat and he’s still not sure how he ended up here but damn is he glad. Jonathan looks up, sensing his presence. 

“You good?” He asks, straightening up, walking over to fix Steve’s collar and mess up his perfectly done hair. Steve just nods, patting his back pocket once more to make sure he’s got the box  _ oh God is he really doing this? _ and blinking a couple of times before following his boyfriend out the door.

The drive there seems to pass him by without his noticing; he only vaguely registers that they’ve reached the restaurant when they’re seated, and his fumbling hands drop the menu not once, but twice. He’s not sure what he and Jonathan talk about, or what he orders, or what he’s eating or whether he’s eating at all; his whole mouth feels numb and tastes a little bit like sawdust and is uncomfortably dry no matter how many times he swallows or how many glasses of water he chugs. Finally, when he can’t stand it any longer, he clears his throat more loudly than he means to, cutting Jonathan off mid-sentence and drawing the attention of the tables to either side of them. He quickly glances to both sides, offering a small shrug and a tilted smile in apology, gesturing them back to their food. He doesn’t need an audience for this,  _ shit _ , maybe he should’ve thought this through better? But no, he can’t back out now, even though he’s not even sure he can get the ring out of his back pocket with his fingers trembling as badly as they are--damn it, he’s going to make a fool of himself. Jonathan is still staring at him as he drops awkwardly to the floor at his feet, fumbling with the tiny box and trying to open the top. He grabs one of Jonathan’s hands, knees digging into the carpet of the restaurant, trying not to think about how many people are looking at and judging the two of them. He breathes out and forces himself to look up, to meet Jonathan’s eyes, which are wide and shocked. 

“Um- I, yeah-” Steve swallows heavily once more, doing his best to remember the words of a speech it feels like he practiced a whole other lifetime ago. “I- damn it, I had a whole thing planned,” he gives up with a nervous laugh, removing his hand for a moment to swipe at his face, before trying again.

“I was wondering- would you be willing to do me the honor of- will you marry me?” He finally gets out, heart pounding so loudly he’s sure that people on the other side of the country can probably hear it. There’s a moment of silence that is possibly the worst moment of Steve’s life before-

“Of course, you idiot.” He can’t stop grinning, even as his boyfriend--his  _ fiance _ \--pulls him in by both his hands for a kiss, slipping on the ring and taking a moment to admire it, though it’s nothing fancy. 

“Also, I made you this,” he says, still giddy with happiness, sliding a tape across the table cloth for Jonathan to see. He takes one look at it and bursts out laughing, a rare occurrence but one that fills Steve with warmth every time.

“Is this supposed to be like the one you made me when I yelled at you in the parking lot? God, that was so long ago,” he says with a shake of his head. Steve practically glows remembering it.

“That was the first time I held your hand!” He defends himself, hands up as though trying to placate his fiance. Jonathan just laughs at him, and they settle back in to finish the food that’s been forgotten on the table. 

Steve’s not sure he can be any happier than this.

  1. _And if a double-decker bus crashes into us, to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die._



They’re bickering again, about something light-hearted, though Steve can’t remember what. The radio’s turned up, though not too loud, and the windshield wipers are working overtime. They’re headed back to Hawkins for the holidays; they’ll stay a couple days with the Byers and then drop by to see the Wheelers before they take off again. Jonathan’s looking forward to seeing Will; Steve knows how much he misses his brother, even if he doesn’t say it. Steve’s thinking about dropping by to see Dustin; it’s been a long time, and even though he's grown up from the boy Steve practically adopted so many years ago, he takes some small pride in seeing the man Dustin’s grown to be. Which is a particularly sappy thought, and one he pretends he’s never had, even though he knows Jonathan can see right through him. He’s relaxed in the car’s heat, the rain and the music and the flickering lights through the windshield soothing, content just to be here, headed back somewhere he feels safe, with the person he loves next to him. 

“You heard from Nance recently?” He asks, glancing over to where Jonathan slumps against the passenger-side door, head leaning against the window. Jonathan looks over at him and smiles.

“Yeah, sounds like she’s doing well. Think her husband’ll be there. She’s looking forward to seeing Mike; they’ve both been so busy that I can’t remember the last time they were together.” Steve hums in acknowledgement. The Wheeler siblings have been incredibly successful in their respective job fields, no surprise there, but it does mean that they rarely get to take time off, so it’ll be nice for them both to visit. 

The car falls quiet again, Steve singing under his breath to the radio, slightly off-key. 

+1.  _ There is a light and it never goes out. _

His body doesn’t have time to tense, his mind still registering the flash of headlights even as it hits. It’s too quiet. Under the ringing in his ears, it’s too quiet. Why is it so quiet? He feels like the end should be cacophonous. Isn’t it always, in the movies? The screeching of tires, the screams of the passengers, the shattering of glass, the thunderous roll of metal against the asphalt? The world won’t resettle, he can’t find Jonathan’s hand. Oh, god, Jonathan, he tries to turn his head to the passenger’s side, he can’t breathe, the physical sensation comes in a rush. He catches it in flashes, there is light on the roadway, strangely beautiful, the smell of gasoline and copper, something is pooling in his lap, why can’t he breathe? He finally gets his eyes to focus on Jonathan beside him; he sees the gash on his forehead and he looks up, too; their eyes meet. His eyes are so pretty. He’s always loved Jonathan’s eyes. He is so lucky to have found this man, he thinks, laying in the wreckage of their car on a dusty two-lane in the middle of nowhere, Indiana. He was so lucky to have had this man. 

He registers movement; Jonathan’s hands scramble to his seatbelt, he is frantic against the headlamps, still valiantly trying to light their way. Huh, lights. He wonders if he’ll get to see one before he goes, it’s supposed to be a tunnel, isn’t it? Maybe that’s too cliche. Probably. That’s alright. He refocuses on Jonathan, who is trying his best to get his attention. “I love you,” Steve tells him, or at least he thinks he does, but he still can’t hear, and he can’t breathe, and he’s pretty sure his vision is getting worse. There are blue and red lights on the road now, wow that’s pretty, but Jonathan is getting his attention again. His eyes are even prettier than the lights, because they also shine, but more like--stars, maybe, Steve’s no poet. Death doesn’t make you a poet, hah, take that! he says in his mind, to nobody; who is he proving wrong? Anyways, he thinks, trying to refocus on Jonathan as the car begins to move, or maybe he moves in the car, it’s hard to tell--anyways, it’s not such a bad thing to die loving somebody. Not such a bad way to go. They had all the time in the world, didn’t they? God, he’s such a sap, Dustin would make so much fun of him for this. Whatever, nobody to hear him now. Except Jonathan, but he’s not in Steve’s brain. Man, he is tired. 

He makes one last grab for Jonathan’s hand. Everything’s blurry but he thinks Jonathan might be crying. They’re out of the car now, that’s nice. Sky, dark, maybe some people. Jonathan is brighter than them all. He’s so pretty. “You’re so pretty,” he says, and he sees Jonathan’s mouth make the shapes he knows by heart now, the “I love you” that is his favorite thing to see, to hear, to feel against his skin, and he smiles. "I love you too," he says, and smiles and smiles and smiles, endless into the night sky. 

**Author's Note:**

> and then Steve woke up in the hospital where Jonathan got to hold his hand all he wanted and they totally made it to the reunion by which i mean everybody just piled in on his hospital bed even though they're all grown up adults because they love him and it was sweet and beautiful and you would have cried if you had been there 
> 
> (real talk i DID NOT KNOW HOW TO END THIS so u get some uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh gross lame gross lame. gross. sorry)  
> hmu @frogsharks on tumblr


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